


amazing, maybe. or bewildering.

by castcommune



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castcommune/pseuds/castcommune
Summary: When Caduceus finally accepts Death's invitation, he is greeted with something unexpected.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	amazing, maybe. or bewildering.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! the ending may be a little rocky, but I found this (unfinished!) fic in my docs and decided to quickly finish it and post it! hope you enjoy. ;)

When death finally comes, it is a gentle release, an outbreath ( dispelling fear and extinguishing mystery ). _Here_ , she says, _come to me_ , and he does, graceful footfalls padding across a scattered field dotted with wildflowers and dandelion sprouts. There is no gravity here, soft breeze washing over pale skin and cool respite. There are no chains to bind him to a world he no longer inhabits, no engagements awaiting reconciliation. Here, she waits, arms outstretched ( as if to say, _look at what you have earned. This is all for you, my child_ ), and never has he felt so selfish, so startled by the sudden vastness of death --- it was forever reaching, an endless sea of poppies and lilies, tulips and roses. Beautiful, he felt, was a poor descriptor, feeling dull and lifeless on his tongue; no, he would need a better word for this absent finality, these blurred edges that extend well past the setting sun. Amazing, maybe. Or bewildering. Puzzled by this lack of perfect explanation --- troubled, not for once, by his own inability to comprehend higher language --- he stops where he stands. Flowers wrap around ankles, bare feet pressed gently against moss-covered ground. He turns to glance behind him ( as if expecting some magical portal, some mysterious entry way that dreams so often conjure ). Instead, he is greeted by his home --- his original home, a quaint house large enough for a family, yet always seeming just a bit too small. There is a light inside, the warm glow of candle lit familiarity striking an oft forgotten chord within him. _They are home_ , she says, and without turning his attention towards her, he feels her gentle smile ( warming his skin, leaving his heart gasping for release ). He sees shadows past glazed windows, figures dancing and laughing. Tears come, and they come calmly, tracing creeks down cheeks and spreading their wetness ‘til it’s mixed in with every other emotion ( like excitement, he thinks, or wonder ). Still, he does not approach; he realizes, too, that one could not be both living and dead; those who walk the line would always need to make a choice --- one way or another, death would prevail. It is a bittersweet realization; oh, how he missed them --- his parents, his brothers and sisters. He can imagine his father’s laugh, and his mother’s all-encompassing hugs. He thinks he hears Clarabelle’s voice, rough and sharp as always against the muted countryside; then, he feels a hand on his shoulder, pressing almost cautiously against it. _Go_ , she says, _they are waiting for you_ ( and gods, does he want to give in --- the Wildmother encourages, and he feels a twinge of sorrow, of guilt ).

“Are they dead?” he asks, can’t help but ask, and he bites back an apology ( a silenced confession --- ignorance would not be bliss, he decided, this being the sole decision he would allow himself to make ). Her hand remains on his shoulder, fingers minutely outstretched, palm unmoving. When she speaks, her voice remains gentle, an unwavering peace amidst this tumultuous unknown; _to some, yes. To you_ , she pauses, perhaps considering her next words; perhaps, too, adjusting to how hesitant he appears to be. _Here, with you, they are full of life_ , and finally, he takes in a breath. The air is crisp, chilling in a way he always seemed to overlook, and it is in this moment that he sees the front door begin to creak open, hears the worn wood ache against its hinges. Stepping from within is a tall woman, brown curls pulled up in a loose bun. Recognizable as his sister even despite this foreign wear and tear of life, she hovers in the doorway, her eyes deep and searching; he straightens his stance, lowers his shoulders ( deflating against her ever-scrutinous gaze, he awaits her judgement ). The hand on his shoulder releases, and the woman before him finally allows their eyes to meet; suddenly, he realizes he is seen. He is seen, and present, even within this outstanding emptiness, this vastness that death so clearly is; finally, her stoic, steady expression begins to falter. It erupts first into a smile, then into a grin --- the brightest star in the night sky couldn’t compare to the sight, and he thinks he will tell her that soon. After this is all over; when everything is settled.

“Caduceus?” she asks, cautious tone betraying obvious exuberance. Tears stream down his face with little regard, and soon enough his own expression is mirroring that before him, smile spreading widely, openly ( like death, he thinks, or life ). Without words, he simply nods, the gesture slow and steady --- as if to say _yes, I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting for so long_. She senses this, or at least he believes such, because she quickly begins to rush over to him, sprinting through the poppies and the tulips, the dandelions and the roses. Strong arms wrap around his middle, squeezing and squeezing as she buries her face in his chest; he has a good bit of height on her --- something she would once tease him relentlessly about --- but he doesn’t mind it, allowing one hand to wrap around her, the other coming to rest timidly at the back of her head. He knows that she is crying now --- can feel the vibrations of sobs held in, of cries slipping through the cracks --- and this provides an odd solace. He is dead --- as is she, as is the rest of their family --- but still, they allow life to take hold. Still, emotions strangle them, like nooses with rough edges, rope burning into tender skin; they remain like this for a long while, simply holding one another, allowing feeling to release naturally ( the understood ebb and flow of reaction would lead them down the correct path, just as life had led them to this very moment ). Finally, once bodies have calmed and the outpours have slowed, he places distance between them, looking her over. She is not quite what he remembers her as; once a sharp-witted girl with a penchant for pranks and a tendency towards the chaotic, she appears to be calmer now, all tired eyes and exhausted face. Toned muscles trace her arms, and he notes this with a mild curiosity. It explains her tightened grip --- it explains, too, her hesitance upon his arrival. He could only imagine the horrors she’d experienced in his absence; he supposes he can ask about that later, too. Maybe, if she’s feeling up to it.

“We missed you,” she says, and the weight of the plural drags heavy heart to the pit of his chest; they have been waiting --- for how long, he isn’t sure he wants to know --- and this means they have been dead for quite some time. While they were fighting for their lives, he was off adventuring with his own motley crew of friends; helplessness stung sharp, tasting like iron in the back of his throat, and he reminds himself then that he need not apologize. There was no place for regret here; he releases a sigh, chest rising and falling with the out-breath. He looks past her shoulder, nodding vaguely in the direction of their family too large, their house never outfitted for such a large occupancy. He sees others standing near the doorway now --- brothers and sisters, his mother and father in the foreground --- and he looks between them, back and forth, back and forth ( as if to ask, _am I dreaming? Will this go away if I blink?_ Or, to ask, _do I really deserve all of this?_ ). His sister reaches out, hand made of lead in this place so heavy with longing, so tied down by faith's tender binds; he takes it cautiously, tightened grasp following as she walks him slowly towards the door, towards this family he has never really given time to mourning for. Perhaps it was hope that kept this fire alive, burning into the never-ending night and the cool, unforgiving nature of the world, or perhaps he has always known it would end this way: winter gives way to spring, and with it, absence gives way to reunion. Life was but a series of goodbyes; death, it seemed, was the birthplace of _hello._ The greetings come steadily, a string of stories sewn together to create a tapestry of every apology he has ever swallowed, and by the end of it all, the sun is still high in the sky, shining its gentle warmth upon this little grove of paradise, this blooming garden of forgiveness, and all the while, he feels the Wildmother's presence. She keeps a loyal watch; he feels her eyes, peering upon him as he laughs despite the tears, as he tells tales of dragons, and uprisings, and a group that accomplished many incredible, unbelievable things. He wonders, distantly, how that group is doing --- _is Jester alright? What about Caleb, or Fjord?_ \--- but he decides to not ask Her for any information. He can later, maybe. If he's feeling up to it.


End file.
